


Differences

by withering_snowflowers



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Lots of Angst, but also sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 11:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15266466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withering_snowflowers/pseuds/withering_snowflowers
Summary: It's his eyes and his face, his laugh - the spitting image of Fred. Until you notice the small but evident differences.And it’s Fred’s girlfriend he was consoling, understanding your sadness like no other.Untilhe falls in love.





	Differences

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2017  
> Warnings: it’s post Battle of Hogwarts, so there’s some angst present. Mentions of death, Fred’s death, symptoms of Post trauma but overall fluffy.

The explosion was loud and clear, ear-splitting and the impact blew several others, including you away. Your back hit another wall and sharp pain shot through your body, a muffled moan escaped your lips. Far away there were screams and groans, but it happened too fast and your sense of orientation was clouded. Who had been injured and where were they? You had to get there quickly.

Smashed shards and sharp pieces, suffocating dust and heavy bricks were sent flying in every direction and you lifted your arms to shield yourself, still clutching on your wand as several more small pieces of the brick wall were flung to where you laid on the ground. For the larger fragments, you either dodged it or blocked them with a Shield Charm.

Getting up as fast as possible while supporting yourself with help of the wall that was still intact, you stunned a Death Eater, who lunged forward out of nowhere, before he could even utter the words for the Killing Curse.

Several metres away, there was chaos, your friends were pulling themselves out of the ruins of the wall, a thick layer of white dust coated their shoulders and heads. Like you, fortunately, most of them only seemed to be slightly injured; covered in small bleeding grazes. You could see Harry stumbling over to Hermione, both seemingly shaken but still alright. He took her hand as they hurried over to the group of red haired men.

And you knew something wasn’t quite alright when you heard the first broken cry of Percy, the oldest Weasley brother present. Your legs started walking, hurrying,  _running_  to where they kneeled, to where the body lifelessly lied. Hot and cold sensation uncomfortably prickling under your skin, curling stomach and bile on your lips, foreshadowing something that you gut had already caught on. The pain in your back was long forgotten.

Percy was still shaking his brother, tears streaming down his face as he kept calling for Fred.

Your knees gave away and you slumped down next to Ron, to little Ron, who wasn’t little anymore. He was seventeen, no, already eighteen. But at that moment he appeared like a small boy, clutching to his older brother’s slacked pale hand, like a child clinging to his mother.

You reached out to Fred, whose expression was empty, his eyes without light, staring up to the ceiling without really seeing. And somewhere, somewhere deep inside you knew what had happened. But you couldn’t grasp it, it just didn’t click. The realization that your boyfriend, your most loved one could be gone was too shattering. It couldn’t be true. Couldn’t. Just couldn’t.

“Let me examine him. I have Dittany’s Essence,” your voice was so hollow, it sounded strange, unfamiliar.

“_______. He is…,” there was a small pause, it was as if Ron feared it too, that speaking it out loud would make it real, would make it the reality,” dead.”

His broken whisper hit you like a yell, a scream, a slap in your face. The surroundings blurred and the noises died down. You didn’t hear the fighting, didn’t hear Percy’s pleadings, didn’t hear Ron’s continuous sobs. Someone, probably Hermione, placed her hand on your shoulder, but you only vaguely felt her touch.

Your eyes were only focused on Fred’s face that gave of a hint of a small smile. His last smile.

Harry had a hard time, separating you from Fred’s corpse. Your hands were like frozen, petrified into firm clasps, clinging onto the still warm body. It was Hermione who managed to pull you away, one hand frantically wiping her tears away. You huffed, as she dragged you away but let her do anyway. 

You fought as if there was no morning. No fear, no scruple, just reckless.

Stunning, Disarming, stupefying. Killing Curses. Dodging, Blocking. Shield Charms. Patronuses.

Repeated processes, like a programmed robot, like a machine.

* * *

 

Voldemort let you retreat, withdrew his Death Eaters to the Forbidden Forest, summoning Harry to appear there within the next hour.

You helped Madam Pomfrey with treating the injured. Mending cuts, dripping Dittany’s Essence on the gravely injured. Brackium Emendo, Ferula and Tergeo.

You gave the freezing blankets, and provided hot cups of tea as they sad huddled together, near the broken chimney that was now hosting a small fire.

Harry, Ron and Hermione entered the Great Hall that was now like a small provisory military hospital; that was now the haven to all.

“Hey, _______. Where’s Fred?” George ran up to you after bringing an injured wizard to Madame Pomfrey. He looked exhausted. Smeared dust and dirt was smudged on his cheeks. No grave injuries except for a few cuts. Raising your wand, you mended the grazes with a small spell.

His grateful smile crumbled when he noticed that you couldn’t quite meet his eyes, couldn’t bring yourself to answer him.

“Where’s Freddie, ______?”

You stared up to him, to the younger twin, to the person who looked exactly like his twelve minutes older brother. And you bit your lip – hard - furrowed your brows and blinked, trying your hardest to suppress the first tears that were finally coming. Because ever since you held his body; ever since they had gathered all the dead ones, you had not been able to shed a single tear. The shock had been too intense for your brain.

You had been blocked, had been hindered. No tear, no sob, no scream. Just blurriness, just nothingness, just darkness. This was probably how it felt to be a Dementor, how it probably felt to be kissed by one of these floating dark creatures.

Your world had stopped spinning, your order was messed up, your heart ripped in thousand pieces just like Voldemort would be later, how he would be when Harry defeated him.

And he immediately knew when you turned your head to the small group of his other family members, all standing around something, around  _someone_ , all forming a deformed circle.

The ginger ran, toppled, towards his family; soon enveloped in a big supporting hug of his mother, of his sister. You could hear their sobs and cries as you bit into your fist, trying your hardest to muffle your own weeping. But you couldn’t look away, couldn’t stand to turn your eyes away from the cold, lifeless corpse that was lying in the middle. Harry had probably felt the same way with the malicious veil that took his godfather.

You seemed almost forlorn, out of place, when stepping towards them, entering their circle. You were his girlfriend. You were basically regarded as a family member, yet it felt like intruding their private space. But they looked up, with eyes full of grief, brimming with tears, and they smiled, tried their hardest to give an understanding smile which faltered, which didn’t reach the corner of their eyes.

And you cried, loud, clumsy sobs which were held back for too long. With your face in your hands and slumped shoulders. It broke like a dam, overflowed like a boiling Potion, until you were nothing but agony, nothing but misery.

Mr. Weasley wrapped his arms around you, his face still wet with tears, and his expression full of anguish. He looked tired, mentally worn out, the mourning and grief deeply engraved into his ageing features.

You cried for your lost love, for the young man who sacrificed his life, who bravely fought for Harry Potter in a war that never seemed to end. For Fred Weasley, whose smile lit up the world, whose sniggers were your favorite sounds and whose heartbeat was your lullaby.

When you finally kneeled down beside George, he was resting his head on his brother’s chest, with his mother lovingly stroking Fred’s flaming red hair. The – now- fourth oldest child was still unable to clasps reality, still unable to believe that his best friend, his soul mate was  _gone._ Gone, vanished like a fleeting dream, like an already cast Patronus.

* * *

 

Fred Weasley’s burial was small, with his family and his closest friends on a bright day with the sun shining brightly and the flowers in full bloom.

You wore his favorite dress, a flowy dress with bright spring colors and flower prints. He had always insisted that they suited your eyes. None of the Weasley’s wore black. It was a sea of shrill suit jackets and mismatching socks, screaming bright ties and eye-blinding dresses.

All of you sung his favorite songs, ate his favorite food cooked by Mrs. Weasley, prepared with so much care and love, it broke your heart once again. By the time the sun settled down, dipping the sky into the colors that reminded you of his hair color, the whole group sat together around a huge campfire, huddled in blankets, holding mugs and making bread on sticks.

It didn’t feel like a funeral at all. Instead, it felt like a farewell party and you knew exactly that this would be what Fred would have wanted. George had done a good job with organizing everything.

Stories were told, memories were shared. It was a wide range, a colorful contribution, like collecting stamps and stickers for a scrapbook.

Ginny’s small smile, was inked with smears of tears when she recounted casting the Bad Bogey Hex on Fred. Ron’s quiet, hoarse voice, telling them for the hundredth time that it was Fred’s fault that he once had a hole in his tongue because his stupid older brother gave him an Acid Pop. Mrs. Weasley remembered when they first mounted the old brooms of Charlie and Bill and how proud she was that they were so gifted at Quidditch, just like Charlie had been.

You cried and laughed and babbled more about Fred’s countless pranks at school; with George and Jordan joining in, jokingly altering the story, making it even more ridiculous until Alicia and Katie roared in, defending you and telling the true happenings.

It was long after midnight when the tales died down and made space for a comfortable, spiritual silence. You watched the flickering fire, watched how the red flames were swallowing the small pieces of wood that Mr. Weasley added; watched how they burned, in a hot embrace, gleaming red with embers until it slowly transformed into ashes.

The bright bonfire casted shadows in his face, making him appear even more tired, even sadder. His chocolate eyes met yours and he smiled, like he always did. George Weasley with his never fading smile. Even when he had just suffered the biggest loss of all. You leaned against his shoulder, meaning to give him your warmth as comfort. But it was actually you that desperately needed consolation.

And when dawn came and the stars started to disappear, when the fire slowly subsided and the translucent smoke rose into the air, mixing, vanishing like vapour, it felt like Freddie’s departure from this world. And when the spring breeze made the blade of grass dance, made the leaves sway to its song, when it caressed your hair and your face, it felt like a touch, like his fingers tracing your skin.

As if Fred was here with you with his usual mischievous smile and his warm hands that liked to stroke your cheeks.

You closed your eyes, leaned into the lucent touch, let it caress you as your heavy heart said goodbye.

But it was a big, fat lie.

* * *

 

“Have you seen __________ lately?” His mother asked him while she stood over at the stove keeping an eye on the bacon while she waved the wand so the knife could continue cutting.

George ducked his head when several eggs flew past him, zooming to where his mother was.

“No, she doesn’t visit the store as often as she used to…” he gulped, the last few words of his sentence stuck in his throat.

_When he was still alive._

“I miss her face here. I liked her the most, Mrs. Weasley sighed and cracked the eggs into the pan. She had still not fully accepted her oldest son’s marriage.

“She still does send me regular owls, though,” the ginger-haired woman mused.

“Mom, she works at St. Mungo’s, of course she will be too busy to drop by.”

“You’re right,” she then agreed, “you visit her then.”

“Why me, mom?”

“Because you used to be the closest to her.”

The younger twin continued to eat, silently, brooding over the things his mother had just said. He had forgotten, had overlooked over his own grieving, that there was yet another person who had to cope with Fred’s death as well.

He had been spending the rest of his days here because he couldn’t bear unlocking the door of their shared flat. Couldn’t bear to step into the deserted hallway, to find it the rooms empty and dark without light and warmth. Where it partly smelled like Fred, where they used to sleep after countless late nights of developing.

Instead, he returned home, for the time being, apparated to the tall cosy building that was filled with even more memories, so many laughter; after closing the store and locking the doors, securing the things in the shop that Fred and he had worked so hard for.

At least he wasn’t alone with his feelings.

* * *

 

It’s been three months since Fred’s funeral and you were working as hard as ever. St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was full of patients, even fuller than before as the population here was still suffering the aftermaths from the war.

There had been plenty of patients that were either coming for checkups, for treatment or even therapy. Children, women, men; of all ages, trying to cope with the latest happenings. It was especially hard for those who had been put under the Imperius Curse.

You understood well how it must have felt, to come back to your senses, like waking up from a nightmare, only to find out that everything that you believed to be unreal, was indeed reality.

Countless men who had been used like mere figures in the game, like marionettes and Inferi; used to spread terror, to kill innocent people. They were visiting the Hospital, desperately seeking for help. Each one more broken than the other, as they had to live with the guilt of killing, the guilt of vanishing someone’s life with their very own hands.

Working closely with Hogwarts, with Madam Pomfrey, the hospital had offered a group of specialists who would talk to the younger traumatized students.

They had told you about dreams of snakes, and eerily whispers of abominable creatures with slits as eyes and furrows as a nose.

And so you had your hands full with work for these past months, barely having time to eat and drink. It became your routine, commuting between the hospital and your flat - not that you spent much time there anyway. The hospital became your second home, your office seat your second bed.

“Take a break ________. Rest up and get a good night of sleep.” your coworker once said, noticing your red eyes and the dark rings below.

“I am fine,” you managed to muster up a small smile after downing another cup of coffee.

You didn’t want her to know that you had also been plagued by nightmares. Hour for hour, night for night, until you didn’t dare to lay down to rest. Until you feared to let your mind slip away, slip out of control, to the place where  _he_  died, to the time where green and red light blurred your view and ashes of destructive fire and grime made your lungs burn.

You weren’t the type to be a fighter; there was a reason why you became a healer at the hospital after your graduation from Hogwarts. Yet, it was inevitable, impossible to just sit there and watch your friends die in front of your eyes, to watch their bodies fall and never get up again.

And so you fought, joined the war, joined the battle; the revolution for a better and safer world.

Never did you once regret this decision, but the nightmares weren’t getting any better and sleeping pills’ effects were wearing off. Each night, reliving the scenes and each time facing Fred’s cold corpse and empty eyes. But these were still harmless compared to the ones where he suddenly gripped your arms, pulling you with him to death, punishing for not being able to save him. Blame, so much blame and constant guilt that cornered you, swallowing you alive.

You found slight solace in work, where you could at least help the countless victims of daily magical accidents; take care of still gravely wounded fighters from the Battle of Hogwarts – because even though the magical remedies were highly advanced, not everything was good to be healed too fast.

When George came to visit you during break time, he noticed your weight loss, the bloodshot eyes and the shadows in your face, so hollow, he almost didn’t recognize you. You were pale, your skin unhealthily translucent.

You greeted him with a feeble hug and a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. It was a helpless curl of your lips, he observed, but it probably sufficed for others to stop asking any further. But the Weasley knew you, had known you for seven years and it was enough to see through your set up façade.

“You look terrible,” he softly remarked when the two of you moved to a calmer, undisturbed place.

“Thanks, George. I am happy to see you too,” you answered dryly. Your feigned sigh sounded a bit too real, as you rubbed your tired eyes. His visit had affected you more than you thought it would, his appearance painfully evoking memories, flashbacks; that you didn’t want to remember, weren’t ready to remember yet.

But it wasn’t his fault, wasn’t his intention to look like Fred, to talk like him, to laugh like him.

“How’s everyone though?”

“Percy and dad are working all the time, as always. They’re never at home.”

“Understandable with an infiltrated Ministry like that,” you added, staring into blank space.

“Ginny’s back at Hogwarts, so is Hermione, Ron and Harry. They are trying to graduate.”

“Well not everyone can leave school and grow big like you guys,” a chuckle escaped your lips and he smiled when the two of you shared a short moment thinking back to the time the twins had told you what they were planning to do.

“She’ll probably tell us that we’re mental before beating us to death,” Fred reckoned.

“Or you just kiss her and when she’s all blushy blushy, you’ll tell her and she might only kill you,” George suggested.

“What bloody shit did the two of you think up again?” you appeared between them and the red-headed boys flinched.

“You tell her,” George urged his brother.

“No, you tell her,” Fred nudged him towards you.

“But she’s  _your_  girlfriend.”

“But you’re her sweet spot.”

You had listened to their plans, in the end, oddly calm without showing any emotion or reaction. It was amusing; you could tell that they really valued your opinion, could see their worried faces and the way their eyes nervously wandered, unable to focus on one spot.

Then, rolling up your newest copy of the  _Daily Prophet_ , you had slapped their heads.

“You guys are crazy, starting a business with these ideas. Blimey. But if there’s someone who can go big with this ridiculous plan, it’s probably going to be the two of you.”

And they proudly smiled, happy about the fact that you had somehow, surprisingly, given them your blessing.

“Charlie went back to Romania. Can’t stay away from these dragons,” there was a short pause, “I mean, they bite, they singe your skin,  _charming_ , aren’t they?”

“Well, they are indeed fascinating creatures,” you interjected.

“Bill’s returned to working for Gringotts.”

“And how are  _you_?”

For the first time since he came, he was unable to look at you.

“I am good,” he quietly answered after a brief moment of silence. You didn’t quite believe him but let his lie slip as you didn’t want to be asked further questions as well.

“That’s great to hear, really.”

“Mom was talking about you the other day. She misses you.”

“Tell her I am sorry, it’s just so much work.”

“You could use a break too,” he playfully poked your cheek. “Where did all the puppy fat go?”

“Very funny. But seriously, I can’t. My coworker’s sick and I have to fill her spot,” you made up a lame excuse.

George’s worry increased and he furrowed his brows, trying to think up something that might persuade you to take a break.

* * *

 

George was still hovering over some documents when the doorbell rang. He automatically peered outside the window even though it made no sense at all. The rain was falling from the clouds, spilling over as if the whole ocean was poured into a single glass. It stirred the mud on the sides of the roads and drowned the plastered stones in Diagon Alley. Somewhere, in the distant, he could hear the loud rumbling of thunder, shortly after his room had been lightened up by flashes of plasma.

The ginger set his quill down and slowly stepped towards the door, picking up his wand on his way. It was a quirk, a safety precaution, a mechanism that he had developed when he woke up at nights with cold sweat covering his body, causing his shirt to stick against his back like a second skin. With his brother’s name still on his lips, a silent scream. In his mind fighting off Death Eaters and imaginary stone walls.

He had never witnessed Fred’s death, yet somehow, every night his psyche seemed to have found a new way for his brother’s passing, a new way to torment him, torture him until he thought he would lose his sanity.

But the wand was long forgotten as soon as he discovered that it was you who was standing at his doorstep, all drenched in rain, looking as miserable as he felt inside.

“George, I am not okay,” you just whispered, kneading your hands, rubbing the hollows of where your fingers connected with your palm, nervously, hectically. Even though he had never once addressed your well-being the past few times the two of you had met up.

He could tell with one glance that you were crying even though you soaked from head to toe, now shivering from the cold. The ginger wasted no time, pulling you inside his warmed housing, offering you the shelter and the comfort that you desperately sought.

For the first time in months, you were able to catch several hours of sleep, without any major incidents. You were curled up, wearing one of Fred’s sweaters that you had found in the living room. Untouched, abandoned. Just weeks ago, it was too hard to even look into George’s face, yet somehow, you yearned for nobody but him. Because he understood, apprehended you on a level that nobody else in the Weasley family could.

And with Fred’s and George’s scent in your nose, you dawned away, deeply exhausted.

It was a light slumber, George noticed, as you kept flinching, your eyeballs unconsciously flickering beneath the eyelids. You were fighting an invisible battle, all conjured by your mind, amplified by your broken heart. He lovingly stroked your hair, silently admired your bravery and your strong will to have been able to go on like this for such a long time.

George fell asleep next to you, with your body heat against his back and your regular breaths in his ear and strangely, the demons refrained from visiting him for this night too.

* * *

 

You didn’t know what you had expected when you entered the large room through the bright red wooden door. Inside, the shop was still fully stuffed with moving objects and steaming stuff. Distant cries and quiet hooting rang from the left corner and you asked yourself what on earth would create noises like these.

In these months, nothing had changed at all.

There was extraordinary junk, a sea of colorful pills and sweets that would coax the wildest reaction from you as soon as you devoured it. Without the antidote - another pill - , you would be completely helpless, you just knew it.

Even though it was Saturday evening – almost closing time - the store was still fully visited. You could see children pulling on their mother’s hands as they tugged them towards the Pygmy Puffs, Fred and George’s special breed.

A little nostalgic smile appeared on your face as you walked past the hoards of female teenagers who were still hovering over the love potions that sat in a steaming fountain. Flacons, phials and flasks in every possible size and shape were standing rows in the shelves, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be purchased.

You walked towards the cashier, a kind looking young woman named Ashley; according to the name tag that was stuck on her bright uniform.

She gave you a friendly smile, eager to serve every customer.

“Hey, have you seen George?”

“Yes, he’s right over there,” following her pointing fingers to the left, your eyes found the now sole owner of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. He was in a deep conversation with an old man, whom you recognized as Ollivander, the famous wandmaker. He had returned to his destroyed store, intending to pick up the arts of making the most important gadget for wizards again.

“Ah, I see him. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Ashley turned around, making the first arrangements to close the shop.

When you stepped closer to them, they seemed to be finished with talking. George gave a small, polite bow and Ollivander waved, the smile wrinkling his eyes before taking a leave.

George’s faint smile was frozen to the spot and you didn’t miss how his wide eyes narrowed for a second. The crease between his eyebrows deepened as his brown orbs darkened, sadness and shock clouding the hazel of his iris.

Without even noticing your presence, he turned around with hanging shoulders and left, disappearing to where his back office was. Meanwhile, Ashley shooed the last reluctant customers out of the shop, before she locked the door.

You hurried after George, not caring about Ashley at all, sensing that Ollivander had said something  _completely wrong_ , hurting him deeply. And he would never tell you that on that day, Ollivander had accidentally called him Fred instead of George.

He sat in the corner of the spacious office which seemed more like a laboratory than a classical office. The candle flickered, casting shadows on his forlorn figure.

Trembling shoulders and his face hidden in even shakier hands, muffling desperate sobs and broken whimpers.

Your heart sunk a few metres. Guilt washed over your body when you came to the realization of how selfish you had been; completely forgetting the fact that George had to deal with a bigger loss than you. Instead, you had been bawling about how hard it was to live without Fred, when George, who had known him for all his life, had to deal with his absence as well.

Crouched down in front of him, you placed your arms on his knees; empathy and understanding written over your face.

“George,” you softly called but he didn’t budge, didn’t react at all.

“George, I am sorry,” you placed your hand on his arm, helplessly trying to fix the mistake that Ollivander had done, trying your hardest to repair the inflicted damage even though you had no idea what had happened.

How were you supposed to restore a fragile heart that was broken, so broken that it laid shattered in so many pieces; just like grains of sand in the desert?

And all you did, was to clumsily wrap your arms around his broad body, just as he had done it several days ago when you had appeared at his doorstep, unannounced and collapsed. With raw, smashed emotion visible on your face and bleeding agony.

“I am here,” you whispered, clumsily nuzzling your nose against his slender fingers that were wetted with tears and quivering breaths; coming in small pants.

* * *

 

Somehow, you had agreed on moving in with George. He had casually offered it, over lunch and after spending several moments of confused blinking - your fork freezing in midair, halfway to your mouth - you had agreed; the ghost of yourself speaking for you like the Oracle that spoke through Professor Trelawney.

When you moved in, unsaid rules were created, taboos that the two of maintained; intuitively understood. George cleaned the storage room for you, depositing the several cardboard boxes with supplies to his own.

Fred’s room was left untouched, closed and sealed, the handle left to collect dust. There were times where you halted in the corridor, stepping close to the wooden door, leaning against the cool smooth surface and you felt close to him. And when you missed him too much, you sat down, back against the door with a book in your lap and a flickering candle beside you.

So many opportunities to push the door handle down but still, your fingers wouldn’t budge. It was too difficult to lift them, to place them on the iron and push. They were paralyzed, stunned, petrified; just stiff and numb with liquid ice in your veins.

George, on the contrary, avoided getting too close to the room. He always walked on the opposite side of the door, never getting nearer than two metres; as if it was cast with a repelling spell. Yet, you perceived the longing glances, the hint of painful affection on his face; lasting only several seconds before a wide grin was draped on his face, replacing his real emotions like a façade, like a clown’s mask.

You decided to open it one day, together with Fred’s younger brother. When you both were ready; ready to face reality, ready to move on and to accept that Fred was  _dead_ , resting in a simple coffin six feet below.

And thus your unusual communal residence began.

* * *

 

They were rather pleasant, the evenings that you spent together, your legs resting on his lap while you were reading about complex topics like Muggle Medicine and his strong arms resting on them, in his hands a book about herbs that were deeply repulsing each other when combined.

It was an invisible bond that you shared, unbreakable and strong, inevitably forged between two grieving humans, forged between two surviving but damaged souls.

Brotherly love and caring affection, expressed in comforting hugs and soothing head leaning, not only consoling your heart but your soul as well. It was weird, how you were so unaware of it, how it only took a soft touch to make you feel better, a faint caress to make you feel whole, completed like a puzzle.

Nonetheless, it wasn’t the best solution, wasn’t the best remedy – no, not when you weren’t talking about the monsters in your mind, not when you weren’t sorting things out. Because you struggled to forget, to obliterate. Oblivion and disavowal.

* * *

 

The worn out notebook laid out in front of him, the leather soft and matte from all the fingerprints, from all the times his brother had held it in his hand, noting their studies, capturing their progress, their discoveries and their final results.

The ginger wasn’t making any progress at all; nothing that he tried had worked; bringing him closer to the result that had set as his goal. There were times, where he was so  _close_ , he could feel it,  _almost_  there, but somehow, it hadn’t clicked yet, the last puzzle piece hadn’t been placed yet.

It was at times like this when he took the tiny metal spoon out, all bent all dented, however still intact. The spoon that was threaded and connected to a chain, hanging around his neck with Fred’s grinning face plastered on it. It was their dream after all and for the sake of their dream, for Fred, he kept going because it was the least he could to honor his brother’s death.

George sat down on a stool; a small ragged sigh escaped his lips. The ginger had difficulties to focus, too chaotic were the things in his head; messy and run down like the Grimmauld place before meeting Molly Weasley.

It was early November when you stormed into the back office, George’s evident secret hideout, his second home. His place of refuge when the crowds and the people were simply too overwhelming. There were nights were you caught him still scribbling notes into Fred’s notebook with such focus, such concentration like you had never witnessed it, not during the O.W.L.s; no, not even during their experiments that regularly blew up half of their room. If it wasn’t for the cleaning spell, it would have been devastated by now. Bless the magic, you mused.

But not today, oh no.

With dejection plastered all over his face, he glumly cleared a cauldron after it gave off a rotten smell. You watched him for a while, sitting on the window sill with a small cup of tea, but after his twentieth sigh, you set the porcelain mug down and slid down the sill.

You had the feeling that he was having difficulties with inventing new products, not only having blockades in his creativity but with his confidence as well.

He looked up when you grabbed his arm, pulling him away from his dubious project that which color alarmingly reminded you of a diarrhea and puke shake.

“We’re going out.”

“As much as I appreciate your pretty face as distraction, Hotcakes. I am not done with this yet.” He deliberately used that annoying nickname that Fred and he invented somewhere during your fourth year.

“We’re going out George. You’ve been sighing and moaning for the past hour and this is not getting you anywhere. Let’s get some fresh air because this shit is starting to smell very unpleasantly.”

Even though he seemed more reluctant than happy about that suggestion, it was actually him who got extremely excited when you proposed to roam the streets of London. He was twenty, yet somehow he had never taken the time to walk through the famous streets and so you decided to take him to the places that you had once strode down, when the leaves were still green.

“This is called a pumpkin spice latte,” you explained when he curiously eyed the poster in front of a coffee store.

“Is it any good?” he turned around to look at you, inquisitive.

“It actually is.”

You didn’t tell him how the color remembered you of his hair, how the smell of nutmeg, cinnamon and brown sugar reminded you of his scent, exotic, spicy and sizzling. So different of what Fred used to smell; a mix of warm wax, explosive powder and a hint of hay.

“It looks like Butterbeer.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it,” you agreed as he leaned closer, genuinely interested in the hot beverage. He was unusually shy, oddly quiet today.

“Shall we get one?” he gave a nod; his eyes, caramelized sugar with glittering stars in the sunset.

“Wait then, I am quicker with Muggle money,” you announced before stepping into the warm store, leaving the tall Weasley outside in the autumn breeze.

“Here you go,” you passed him the hot paper cup which he gripped with two hands, warming his freezing cold skin with its heat.

“Thanks. What do I owe you, Hotcakes?”

“George, please. We’re past that,” the two of you begun walking again, strolling through the asphalted street.

“Take a sip,” you urged him on, eager to see his reaction. Following your request, he raised the cup to his lips, carefully sipping on the steaming hot liquid. He pulled a face, singing his tongue and you laughed.

“I taste hot,” he gave a small wink and you rolled your eyes.

The next attempt seemed to be successful though.

“It’s good!” the younger twin exclaimed, taking another full gulp, closing his eyes when he did so. He liked the spicy, sweetish taste. Rich and creamy like Butterbeer.

“I know right?” you also drank, walking past a crowd of loudly talking people.

“Whose cup is this?” George wondered, vaguely gesturing to the second one that you were holding.

“Well, I thought we could bring Fred one too,” you automatically replied before the real meaning of your phrase sunk in, before the realization of what your action truly meant spread, prickling shock and uncomfortable goosebumps.

And the cup dropped, fell, the hot liquid splashing in every direction, dipping the asphalt into a darker color.

You frantically rubbed the dents of your hands, as if you had just been burned, speechless, tears and words deeply stuck in your throat 

He apparated home with you that evening, taking care of you as you nestled in a blanket on a sofa.

There was a long silence until you suddenly spoke up, your eyes focused blankly on the smooth surface of the table in front of you.

“I miss Fred like crazy.”

“Me too,” he agreed.

Then  _finally_ , the words spilled, forming phrases of all kinds. Incoherent spluttering, loose fragments of sentences and open feelings – no more hidden or kept quiet.

You stayed awake all night, talking,  _just_ talking and crying and laughing; but it was a step closer to recovery.

At long last, the chaos was fought and feelings were sorted out, significant things that the two you had long remained silent about because he and you were just too scared.

* * *

 

He didn’t know why he brought that thing home to repair it. But here it was, standing on the counter in the corner of the spacious kitchen. He had not tried it yet but dad told him that it was working well.

George had just closed the shop for today, long after its closing time because he was still working on one of his newest inventions that were supposed to temporarily freeze your face. But you came home even later, with slumped shoulders and sorrowful eyes.

“I’ve lost a patient today,” your voice was no more than a whisper.

And he thought this was the right time to try it out. He carefully placed the disk in the record player and set it up.

“Come,” he took your hand, lead you to the large space in the middle of the dining room, the room that was connected to the kitchen, as an unknown song rang through the speakers.

His large hand gripped yours while the other was gently placed on your waist.

“What are we doing?” you asked him with a hint of a small smile on your face, slightly confused by his actions. He started to sway to the music, leading you on as your legs automatically moved.

“As you can see, we’re dancing.” His genuine grin warmed your heart and the smile on your lips broadened. You hadn’t seen such a genuine smile for weeks, for months even.

He slowly twirled you around; let you perform a clumsy pirouette, taking you two years back in time where Fred had loudly yelled over the whole common room, asking you out for the Yule Ball with the smuggest smirk possible.

You had agreed, with thumping heart and nervous stomach, had asked Katie and Alicia to help you with the styling, so you could be as pretty as possible.

Fred had totally forgotten, forgotten to pick you up from the Ravenclaw dormitories because he was busy with things you were better off not knowing.

The Great Hall was beautifully decorated, all in silver and white, reflecting and sparkling. It reminded you of snow crystals and broken glass prisms, reflecting the light.

“Fred Weasley, you git,” stalking up to the red-haired boy who was standing with your fellow students of your year, you earned his attention. His eyes widened for a moment and you noticed the appearance of brief realization of what he had done.

“Oh, you’re searching Fred? He’s not here yet,” the twin sheepishly answered, an easy lie slipped over his lips. You pulled him close by his ear and he made a face.

“Well, then  _George_ , how about we search your brother so I can beat him senseless?”

“Why would she want to beat me?  _You_  forgot to pick her up,” George appeared to your side, only having heard the last part of your nice conversation.

“I know, that this is Fred,” you smiled sweetly while releasing the - by now already long- ear of the older twin.

“I am sorry, I was just so nervous, I totally forgot,” Fred smoothly apologized while rubbing his left ear. He had never once lost his composure, as he was a natural in improvising.

“Mhm,” you hummed, not angry at all. He was your best friend, there was no way that you could stay furious.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he suggested with a mischievous smirk.

“Do I really want that?” you raised your eyebrows, your voice sounding higher than usual.

“You’ll be the only one I look at today,” he whispered and took your hand, leading you into the Great Hall. Behind him, George gave him two thumbs up and you rolled your eyes when Fred returned the gesture.

“Why isn’t George coming with us?” you turned back to where the other Beater of the Gryffindor team stood.

“He’s waiting for Alicia, she forgot something in her room,” Fred replied while he skillfully guided you through the mass, carefully so you wouldn’t trip in your high shoes.

The ginger wasn’t a bad dancer, yet his dancing skills didn’t reach his Quidditch abilities at all. They were adorably stiff and clumsy and he misled you a lot, which resulted in you basically rolling his feet into flat dough. He swirled you around, fast and you laughed out loud in surprise.

“You’re still angry because I forgot right?” You had once again managed to step on his foot. You looked up to his handsome face with the shoulder long hair and found his eyes smiling and his lips curled into a teasing smirk.

“Yes. It takes a bit more than just dancing to make it up to me.”

“I can already think of something that might persuade you.”

“Oh, what is it?” curiosity appeared on your expression and Fred thought it was the most adorable thing he had ever seen.

“You’ll see.” His mischievous, yet secretive smirk cause the butterflies in your stomach to dance.

“Show me!”

“Now?” he raised his eyebrow, eyes mysteriously flickering from left to right.

“Yes!” you urged him on, trying to control the sudden rush of excitement that washed over you.

“Well, then,” he shrugged with a playful laugh.

Fred Weasley bent down and kissed you right on your mouth. Right on the dancing floor and right in front of the half the school.

And your environment ceased to exist. The music halted, the laughs died down and all the movement stopped. It was completely cut out, as you focused on how of his lips felt on yours, of how they moved, caressed yours, taking you somewhere else, to cloud nine.

“You’re not forgiven.” A small blush appeared on your face when you heard George’s whistle from afar.

“I am not?”playful shock on his face.

“Only if you go out with me, Weasley”

“Bloody hell. I wanted to ask you that,” he mumbled with a feigned troubled tone.

George strengthened his grip, and the massive stone walls of the Great Hall dissolved, you were back with him in the kitchen, dancing in socks over the laminate floor, an old song accompanying you.

He hadn’t missed the distraction on your face as you remembered something. It must have been something beautiful because you seemed shy when he earned your attention again.

George didn’t ask out of respect, but also because he didn’t want to know, couldn’t bear knowing what you had just remembered about his brother.

There was more silence - rather pleasant silence between the two of you - until you quietly spoke up.

“You’re a good dancer George. Where did you learn that?”

The ginger shrugged, his lips slightly curling.

“I am a natural.” He lifted his arm and you slowly rotated. He was so gentle with his grip, always careful not to let you slip in your socks, yet he skillfully led the steps, guided you through the song.

“Do you want to dance something faster?” you suggested, staring up to the taller young man.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he chuckled before releasing you. You watched his broad back as he walked over to the record player to switch the disks. He was taller and more slender than his brother. He was also a better dancer. And even though George was so similar to Fred that sometimes it hurt, you couldn’t help but notice the small but definite differences.

George was so much gentler, calmer than Fred. He was witty, yet thoughtful; always making sure you would eat and drink enough. Occasionally he’d even turn up at your workplace, coaxing and persuading you to come home when you had repeatedly stayed too long.

You picked up on how the corner of his lips had these curls whenever he smiled, how he liked to wink when making inappropriate jokes, well aware of how much they made you blush. Sometimes, when he was completely engrossed in his tasks, he would slightly stick his tongue out, deep in concentration.

There was something about his happy smile that made him look so bright, so kind; it reminded you of third years when going to Hogsmeade for the first time.

Your hands rejoined as jazz music filled the room, spreading the catchy rhythm in your veins like bubbling, sizzling champagne.

A shrill squeak left your lips when he whirled you around in a fast pace, your legs twisting and tapping in complex sequence - it was a miracle that you didn’t stumble or slipped at all.

You took a moment to look into these bronzed eyes, enveloped in a ring of dark, rich coffee; roasted beans. Sun-kissed hazel, faint speckles of moss and grounded matcha. And the color of his hair, autumn leaves and dried oranges, shimmering in such a nice shade in this dim light.

He laughed and slipped below your arm as you silently nudged him to rotate as well. This turned out to be harder than you had imagined, as he was much taller than you. He ducked and you huffed when he strained your arm, trying his best to fit below your grip.

“We’re getting old,” you panted after another intense song, doing your best to catch your breath. The pain had eased and your energy was replenishing, recharged.

“Yeah,” he agreed, breathless himself with glittering eyes, so mischievous, so alive.

And you noticed, things were quite different now.

* * *

 

He took you to The Burrow for Christmas after hearing his mother’s nagging for quite some time.

The house was crowded than ever, as Ginny, Harry, Ron and Hermione had returned from Hogwarts too, all well but still affected by the war.

Despite the elaborated decoration- glittering lights and shiny ornaments - and the delicious food (Mrs. Weasley’s sinful cooking) the atmosphere was still not entirely cheerful as it used to be in the past few years.

Fred’s absence wasn’t something that all of you were used to, not after only seven months. And you caught George turning around to the seat that was usually his brother’s intending to make a sarcastic remark, intending to share a ridiculously bad joke. He would stop in midair, remembering the still paralyzing truth and then pretend as if nothing happened, hoping that nobody had noticed it.

It was for these moments when your eyes met and you comfortingly smiled across the table. And he nodded, immediately feeling better, feeling consoled as if you had just given him a long hug.

When you were sitting with Hermione and Ginny far away, talking about their future plans, Molly Weasley, the matriarch of this house, took the chance to sit down with her fourth oldest son. George was clutching his coffee cup, vaguely staring into your direction, completely lost in thought. She had shooed the rest of her men away, wanting to speak to her son without anyone else present.

“Have you been eating properly, Georgie?”

“Mom, of course, I haven’t. _______ lets me starve and as I am still 5 years old, I am unable to take care of myself.”

“I am just worried George, you should’ve just moved back in.”

“No, it’s okay the way it is. I am managing.”

“How is ______? She looks so thin too. And tired.”

“Work has been occupying her a lot. But she usually returns so we can have dinner together. At 10 o’ clock usually.” he cheekily grinned to his mother’s dismay.

“What is it really that you want to talk about?” he then enquired and Molly sighed, defeated.

He had always been the most attentive son, catching on the things that Ron or Percy, for example, would usually miss. It was what made the twins so unbeatable. With Fred’s leadership qualities and George’s thoughtfulness, his intelligence, they would’ve made it far.

Of course being a mother to seven children had brought lots of experience and Molly knew her sons well.

There was no way that she could miss the accidental touches that George made, his fingers closing a second too long around your hand when handing the salt over. She didn’t fail to notice the occasional glances that her son threw towards you when you weren’t paying attention, too engrossed in the conversation with Hermione about her aim with S.P.E.W.

The hidden affection in his eyes, yet still undiscovered by himself. He was such an intelligent young man, yet dense to the core when it came to love. In that matter, he was thoroughly like all the Weasley men in the house. Helpless.

“My son, you are so smart, yet so dense,” she lectured George who just bemusedly stared at her.

“Haven’t you felt that your relationship changed?”

“Mom. She was Fred’s girlfriend! Besides, she’s my best friend. Has always been; nothing more.”

“ _Do you really feel like that_?”

* * *

 

_“You okay, Freddie?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Me too,” he lied, ignoring the atrocious gut feeling that spread through his body like the weed in a garden. He would find out only a few hours later that his guts were right from the beginning._

“Are you alright?” with a thud you landed next to him, waking him from his memory.

Slightly staggering from the apparating process, you supported yourself by briefly gripping on his arm and the ceiling of the balcony of his family’s house.

“Yeah,” he really meant it; because seeing your face calmed him. He wrapped his arm around you and let you lean your head against his shoulder as the two of you silently turned to look at the sky and the floating fluffy clouds, now slowly travelling by the wind.

George’s eyes wandered to your face, now in shadows with only the moonlight on your fine features. He saw the soft curves of your lips, so full and still rosy despite of the cold. He discovered your long eyelashes, the color of your iris, now dipped in silver light, reflecting and doubling the perfectly round moon in your eyes.

The desire of burying his nose in your smooth, silky hair overcame him, he wanted to smell your soothing scent. Leaves in spring and the fresh cold water from a source, a lake in the middle of a blooming forest.

“ _Do you really feel like that_?”

* * *

 

Mirrors were vicious, lying things, supposedly to be objects of the truth, mirroring, showing you the things that you cannot see without the reflection.

Yet every time George looked into the mirror, glanced into its shiny cold surface, it was his brother’s face that stared back at him, not with empty eyes and a ghost smile but with a grotesquely distorted grimace and malicious whispers that echoed in his ears like the screams of his friends dying on this fateful day, called the 2nd May.

Blame, guilt, damnation for him who wore the same face, who shared the same laugh, the same brown eyes.

He was the copy of the original, the unsuccessful clone, the talentless doppelganger; unable to create something new; now that the real genius had left, had gone.

And here he was, falling in love with his dead brother’s girlfriend, falling like Dumbledore did on his death day; like the angels that refused to love Muggles more than God.

He was damned, was sentenced to Fred’s possible and justifiable loathe, revolt. No, he was certain; with that, the whole “Rest in Peace” thing would be over for his brother.

But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t refrain from the fleeting, faint touches, couldn’t hold himself back to envelope you for late night cuddles. Because the way your small body molded against his, felt so  _perfect._ And each time he conceded, allowing his lips to linger a bit longer on your forehead, allowing his arms to press you a little closer; the burden on his shoulders increased, weighing him down as if Fred was hanging on his back.

George had already been granted the ultimate gift,  _life_. He was the one who was granted to be alive, who survived a battle that had seemed so hopeless, never-ending even.

Nonetheless, it wasn’t enough. The ginger was selfish for wanting your love, was greedy for your affection, mercenary for your favour like a soldier for money.

He was living a curse.

* * *

 

You didn’t realize how he became you all, the sole constant in your life, the solid rock in a stormy night, withstanding all of your outbursts, your ugly anger; raging and burning like the Fiendfyre, uncontrolled and raw.

He was there when you screamed at nights, with trembling shoulders and shaking fingers, face as white as a sheet as you stuttered about Fred coming for you, taking you with him because you were a failure,  _failed_  to save him even though you were such a skilled healer.

Then, his warm smile was there when you came home after being able to cure someone, to send her or him home to their loving family after being hospitalized for so long. Always there for celebration.

George had seen all of your facades, all of your good and bad sides, knew all of your patterns – especially now that you were sharing the flat with him. You had known the twins for nine years - a long time indeed - yet not even Fred had ever had the insight of the things that George was now confided in.

But was it love that you were feeling?

Or was it just the love that you still held for Fred, only projected on his brother who resembled Fred, not only in appearance but in personality as well. They had so much in common, shared so many things, as if one soul was split into two bodies. Yet they weren’t the same, couldn’t be more different than day and night; than Gryffindor and Slytherin; than Percy and Ron.

Were you trying to replace Fred with George?

You didn’t know.

You were so confused, so disorientated as if someone had cast Obliviate on you, causing you to forget, to have difficulties with remembering the significant things.

It was like back in your teenage. Once the realization hit, once you were aware that there were indeed feelings that were growing into something more than just friendship, you would start to behave differently.

This constant alertness and edginess that was automatically conjured. You were self-conscious about your behaviour, your gestures towards him, painstakingly careful not to touch him. But you craved his warmth, the way his hands felt between your shoulder blades when you hugged, yearned for his rough fingertips, leaving trails of liquid lava whenever they accidentally or deliberately brushed your skin.

But you still loved Fred, you convinced yourself, attempting to tell yourself not to give in to the temptation like Eve did, when she plucked the fruit that later was their downfall.

There was no way that you were falling for George, no way you  _could_  fall for him, for him who constantly reminded you of his deceased brother.

* * *

 

He let you step into the flat, the place that used to be your home for more than half a year before the two of you decided to part ways for several months.

Because when Fred’s first death anniversary approached, the guilt feelings increased, the sins doubled, coating your fingers with ashes of the dead and poisoning your heart with such heaviness – impossible to bear.

The outcome was inevitable; it was the best decision, really. You moved out of the flat after his confession, after your own confession. Because the two of you were too unsure; too uncertain about the feelings that had blossomed during your stay. It was a fragile bond, frail and delicate love forming over divided grief, shared mourning. Like a small plant blooming in mid-winter, breaking through the layer of ice, fighting its way through the coats of snow, so it could get a glimpse of the warm winter sun. Until its short life was ended for when the sun disappeared, frozen to death, dying in vain.

Because only distance and time would show how deep these sentiments truly were.

You had brought the cups of steaming hot coffee, not wanting to show up empty-handed. Because what else should you hold on to, where else should you look at when it became too hard, too overwhelming to meet his eyes?

“How have you been doing?” you quietly asked, nervously fumbling with the lid of your paper cup.

“The shop’s doing fine and I’ve finally brought out the new items. They work fine,” he leaned against the window sill, in his hands the cup of coffee that you had brought. And he seemed really happy, your heart squeezed.

“I am happy to hear that you have finally succeeded with your invention!” You gave a smile before awkwardly sipping on your own beverage, not really knowing what else to say. Was it proper to just directly ask?  _How_ were you supposed to ask?

You were scared, quite frankly, fearing that his feelings had changed in all these months, vanishing like smoke in the air. What if he loved another, what if he had fallen for one of these pretty girls that he had seen during these past weeks? You dreaded his grinning eyes and his apologetic smile when he admitted that this love he had claimed to be feeling was all false, all fraudulent. You had relentlessly worked, had gone out once or twice; but the more time had passed, the more it became clear that you loved him, loved the guy with the flaming red hair and the curly lips and the missing ear.

You found Fred’s scrawled writing on the back of one of his photos in your room, and your vision blurred and your lips tasted salty. Endless relief washing over your body when you understood that it was okay to move on, to find a new love. Because Fred would always be in your heart, living in happy memories. Because he would always be your first love.

_Please be happy._

You bit your lip and took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves, trying to insulate your hope. Because after all, that has happened, you didn’t think that you could yet survive another heartbreak.

George hid his trembling fingers and overplayed his shaking voice with a small laugh. He had always been the mischievous type. The one who always smiled, who always told jokes. But today – on this not so ordinary Wednesday – he didn’t trust himself to be able to go on smiling after you had confessed that you didn’t hold any affection for him anymore. That all that had happened between you; had just been an illusion, a reflection of what your relationship with Fred was supposed to be.

He had confided his mother, had even asked Ron for advice; desperately trying to ease these doubts; yet ready to welcome their disapproval, their displeasure, ready to accept the defeat.

They had shot him down, and his mother had placed her hand on his arm, assuring him that there was no way in hell that Fred would hate him for falling in love with you. She told him that he was probably watching from above, hoping for his little twin baby brother to find his own happiness and to keep living without regrets. And that he was wishing the same for ______ who was just as gravely affected by his death as George.

The ginger set his cup down and when his eyes directly met your mesmerizing eyes - coloured crystals and stardust - the uproar, the chaos in his heart him halted, stopped, like the eye of a storm. He was completely relaxed, entirely quiet inside.

“Nothing has changed,” he had mustered enough courage to tell you. This small, plain sentence which took him so much bravery to utter.

His words hit you with the impact of a scream and the coffee cup that you had set on the table was long forgotten when you automatically got up from the sofa.

Your legs carried you to where he was standing, to where your cure was, to where  _your_  heart was.

Uncertainty reflecting in his hazel eyes, lips curled to a half a smile and a deep crease between his eyebrows as he held your stare, unable to read your expression, your emotions. Because even though he had known you for ten years now, you were still the dearest secret, the riddle, the last puzzle piece to the success of his inventions which mysteries he had never been able to solve.

You clutched his warm face in a gentle, yet firm grip and his lips curled like Lavender Brown’s hair, so hopeful, so expecting.

You kissed him, kissed him like there was no morning until his hands grabbed the back of your head, pulling you closer, pulling you closer to where his heartbeat.

He tasted bitter like coffee but strangely sweet, promising a new beginning, promising salvation.

And this whole journey that seemed to have no destination, this roller coaster of tears and suffering, finally came to an end as the two of you finally took the final step towards healing.

* * *

 

“Ready?” his warm hand tugged on yours as his head turned, lovingly gazing down on you.

His other hand was firmly placed on the door handle, but not pushing down yet. George stood in front of the door, as if he was trying to shield you from all the negative feelings, from all the memories that would crash down on the two of you as soon as this door was opened.

“Ready,” you squeezed, stepping close to him, so your shoulders would touch his arm.

There was a short pause and even though the two of you were perfectly okay, there was still a small part of you that hesitated, fearing what was going to come when this door – that had been sealed, left untouched for a year, – would finally be unlocked.

“Let’s do it together,” you suggested, sensing his own reluctance, his insecurities as well.

And he gave you the most beautiful smile, so loving, so grateful for your understanding.

George leaned down to press a small kiss on your lips and you craned your neck for more before placing your smaller hand on top of his.

“Together,” the two of you said and pushed the handle down, revealing Fred’s dusty room, smelly and messy like he used to be.

“He left a sandwich somewhere,” George commented with a grin but he too had to roll his eyes and hold his breath.

“Typical,” you turned up your nose as the unpleasant smell hit you like a shock wave.

“Well, then let’s search the sandwich first. How come that we didn’t notice the nasty smell earlier…”

“Acci-“ he raised his wand into the air and you shoved your fingers into his face, covering his mouth.

“Are you crazy George? Do you really want to hold this rotten thing?”

“You’re right. Let’s do it the Muggle way.” he shivered, most certainly imagining the outcome, before an almost inaudible snort escaped his lips.

 


End file.
